I haven't written in the past few weeks for several reasons. I've been depressed; lost over 10 pounds. I have felt like a complete failure in every way and a lot of my clients hit the fan with certain things: Ms. Walker thought I was involved in a shooting in her neighborhood. Ms. Cynthia had another PCP trip and she and her mother literally screamed at each other; her mother told her she wished she'd had an abortion and Cynthia was nothing. Worthless. And I'm there in the apartment and start crying myself. Also worthless. Ms. Dudley needs a lot of rental assistance and cussed me out because she lied on a benevolence application from this church and got denied money. Ms. Brown's CRF director wants her to have a completely new doctor and medical evaluation when really, the woman's a lazy, sometimes cruel person who refuses to help herself. Tarsha Smith's out of food. Rose Shaw's son is stealing money from her and she needs a new payee. Lisa Ruth has to have supervised visits with her daughter and guess who gets to go with her? Oh, and add to that my paperwork has sucked, SUCKED lately and I have felt like I can't do anything right. I've gotten lectures about memorizing my clients NOW, knowing everything about the SSA system NOW, CFSA NOW, court hearings, appeals, food stamps, crisis beds, hospitalizations, authorizations for disclosure of health information, referrals, background checks, probation officers, TANF, SSDI qualifications... the list goes on and on and I've been too overwhelmed to do anything. I've lost 10 pounds since taking this job. I'm 110-113 and haven't been this small since high school.
I am working on the art of shutting my brain off and not allowing certain thoughts to go to far, especially the "you're not good enough" thoughts. Those are the worst, and they get me down every time. The good news is, I got all my treatment plans done PROPERLY this time around, as well as caught up on Lisa Ruth's monthly from MAY when I wasn't even her case manager, as well as caught up on face sheets, as well as made over 100% productivity, as well as got all my client's assessments finished. I'm caught up, and over the weekend, I don't have to think about work at all. That's a huge deal, and I'm thankful for it.
In this job, The Lord is showing me the most incredible, breathtaking things, and through this job, I feel like I'm discovering things for the very first time. Is that strange? I feel like I am knowing myself, allowing myself to really rip off the layers of protection I built so people wouldn't see the real me, but I feel no reason to hide the real me at work, around these people I work with, both in the office as co-workers and outside the office as clients. I am a very emotional person, and I have allowed myself to feel these things so deeply and become so moved over the past 2 months. I weep over tragedy, the injustices and the unfairness of it all, and I weep over joy that prevails. I smile at the people who try, who want nothing more than to get out of the ghetto and live differently, and I wonder at their perseverance.
How incredible the human spirit is. These young boys and girls who get an education and get out are going to become so culture shocked from the white America they'll encounter, and yet white America will never go down to the ghettos and understand where the blacks came from. We'll never appreciate the courage it took to break out of that comfort zone, even if it was the ghetto, and get to another place. And the unsuccessful people without the tenacity to get out? The ones on drugs who have abusive, traumatic histories they can't get past? Those are my clients, and through all the feelings of worthlessness (because I really can't think of a better word to describe the root of this depression), I have been given the great privilege of being used by the Lord to attempt to love people as Jesus would've loved. And seeing people react to that cannot help but move you.
It has to move you.
It has to be something powerful to the point where I won't be satisfied with the everyday status quo. I don't want to be satisfied with it. Even down to the cup of cold water, and supporting my clients when no one else will, loving others like Jesus is literally the hardest thing in the world. The hardest. I don't know how He did it. But It's not easy to love people who are angry at you, so entrenched in Satan's lies that defeat seems inevitable; knowing that and loving them anyway. My flesh tells me its a waste of time, its hopeless, and that nothing will come of it. My flesh tells me I could be doing something else with my life. What sucks is I'm right. But Jesus is greater than the lies my flesh says, and my trust is fully in my Savior who saved me when no one else could.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Cynthia II
It's 7:30 in the morning. I'm at a Subway across from the courthouse on Indiana Ave and I'm watching hoards of blue collar and white collar workers join the rat race and get to work on time.
I am one of them now.
It's so strange to think about it but when I actually concentrate on the fact that I'm employed, paying taxes, and "doing my part," I can't help but chuckle to myself. How quickly I went from a child to an adult. What a twisted road I took; this year of working at Community Connections will be one where I look back and wonder how I made it. There will be times when it dragged on for eternity, and there will be times when I blinked and it was over. I can't believe it's already July. Does the rest of life go so quickly?
I'm snapped back to reality when someone tries to come into the Subway from a locked door. "Not open, come in main ah-trence!" Another African, employed and working in America. The begger is pissed but keeps walking. I hate this place this morning, and decide to kill time by writing my parents a letter from the pen and paper the Congressman's office gave me as a "thank you" for being such a great intern. So great, in fact, they didn't hire me when a job opened. I'm trying so hard to not be bitter, but it's difficult when they went with someone with more hill experience over someone who knew the job, and spent so much time and effort with the offices in Yorktown. Now I'm stuck in this job I hate it because I can't do any better for myself. I'm drowning in this pity party. Letter.
"Dear Mom and Dad,
I'm here at a Subway restaurant, waiting to see if one of my clients will show around 9. It's about 7:30-- I had to drive Kiara to Chinatown today to catch a bus to NYC, where she has a job interview.
I feel very stuck right now. There are no jobs out there for which I can easily apply, and without a Masters' degree, I'm not very marketable. Lately I've been having trouble thinking to the futre; been stuck in the moment. I might be writing you all a lot of letters over the next year; it helps. I'm starting to resent the city. I'm trying very hard to remember memories here with family, but there are so many moments now that override the old ones. I'm trying to focus on the year; this is only temporary. this is only a year, but it seems like an eternity. All I really want to do is get this over with and get out; I don't even know if I want to stay in Arlington. I want to be somewhere away from the city and the busy style of things.
I got really angry at God yesterday. I want to know why God allows some people to be born into failure; drug addicted homes, predisposed to these dangerous lifestyles. I realized yesterday that I'm looking evil blatantly in the eye everyday and it's exhausting. I feel so frail today, like I'm powerless, helpless, and doing absolutely nothing important. I feel like I'm not good enough to work anywhere else, like I have no other choices right now. And I know this is my problem, where I'm here stuck in the moment. I can't seem to get out of it. I'm sick of crying; I'm never hungry and I've lost some weight; I don't have any interests today other than sleep. A year; I have to just get through this for a year.
Do you think I'm weak? Do you think I'm a coward? I know I need to just grow up; Maybe I was too eager to grow up. I don't really remember why I was in such a hurry. I don't remember who was so important that I had to impress them. Have you ever felt this way? Will it go away, or will I always feel so overwhelmed? The funny thing is, I'm not scared of losing my job. I'm not worried I'll fail on paper. I'm not even scared of my clients; I walked around bad Anacostia neighborhood yesterday to clear my head. I still can't even pinpoint the breakdowns, except I feel I got what I deserved. I'm working at a job I settled for because I was so scared of being looked down on as a college-graduate-nobody. I'm my own worst enemy I guess. But all I'm wondering now is what I was trying to hard to prove in the first place.
I've considered failing on purpose at this job and not making productivity; that would give me 2 months to clear out; one on probabtion and the other final month to leave. But that would be a black eye on my resume and I'd be stuck with rent and no way to pay. This isn't the worst; I know that I am very blessed and I'm thankful for God's provision and my relationship with Him.
This is not a good letter; I know. I'm sorry you guys have to read about my gray while still dealing with Nana. I'll be better, I think. I'll write more. It helps. I love you both so much, and miss you.
Love,
Ellen"
Mr. Moten's supposed to be here soon; I should probably walk over to the Judicairy Metro stop. I keep an eye out for Mr. Bogash; he wants to meet up later and discuss why I got into "do-gooder" work, as he calls it. If only he knew I feel like I'm trapped, in every possible way.
Mr. Moten is already at the Metro. He's easy to recognize. He's a very handsome black man who would probably go very far in life if drugs and schizophrenia hadn't taken hold of him in his 20s. He's a father of 3 and is here to inquire about how much money is taken out of his SSI check for child support. His youngest is 18 and he seems to think the cut off age is 18, though I have a sinking feeling it's 21. He's angry that his son's mother is likely pocketing the money and as I sit down next to him in the heat, he sounds so helpless.
"I can't figure this out," he says. "I'm paying for him and they takin' this money out and I don't even know if he's gettin' it. I can't get a break man, can't get a break."
Mr. Moten is especially heart-breaking. He takes great pride in his appearance. Today he's wearing a baby-blue shirt and nice slacks. He loves to read and carries his lawnchair with him everywhere. I've often seen him in the Mall lounging in front of monuments with books from the library. He's a kind soul, so quick to smile and so observant. I have a picture of my parents on my desk, and the first thing he ever said to me was "you are the spittin' image of your mother." He's always talking about starting an enterprise, a "philanthropy like Bono or Bill Clinton" and he's always looking for investors. He found one the other day apparently, but it was an annonymous donor.
"Look at everyone. Walking around like everything is just peaches an' cream. Don't nobody know what a hard break is. They all got money, they have no idea. Ellen, I got a book on making money. All about capitalism."
"Oh, I studied some of that theory in school. Want me to explain it to you?"
He looks suddenly amused. I walked into a hole with this one. "Go ahead."
"Umm, ok. So capitalism is where the market is free from most government regulations and buyers and sellers determine the prices of goods. There is competition and people can get rich or poor depending on how competitive they make themselves. Everyone has an equal opportunity to succeed or fail." I cringe as I say this, because I know it isn't true.
"I know I know what it is. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. I know, I'm one of the poorer ones, fall on hard times. You ever had a hard time, Ellen?"
I hesitate, because there was a time in my life I couldn't physically move by myself. Mr. Moten has never experienced this; he's in perfect shape, just incredibly poor. "Yes, but it's different from what you're going through, Mr. Moten. Everyone has different problems. Just because you're rich doesn't mean life is good; someone who looks like everything is just 'peaches and cream' may have a whole 'nother set of issues that you will never have to experience."
"Hmm. Maybe, I guess you're right. Let's go in now."
We're both drenched because it's around 100 degrees outside. Mr. Moten discovers that he has to keep paying child support until his son is 21. He laughs, but there's a certain defeat to it. I'm sorry Mr. Moten, I want to say. I'm sorry that you're stuck and you can't start trying to build your business until after you can save some more money. I'm sorry you're sweet, caring nature will never really be seen by the world because society is so quick to label you a nobody, an undesirable. I'm sorry the world won't get the chance to see what your potential could've been. I wish I could do more to help you, Mr. Moten; it hurts to think of all you've been robbed of.
"Please have a safe weekend, Mr. Moten. Stay inside in the air conditiong, ok? Drink a lot of water. Be safe, take care of yourself Mr. Moten."
"Alright. I'll see you on Tuesday, Ellen."
-----------------------------------------
I pick up Cynthia later that morning. She's wearing clothes today and her face looks surprisingly younger; she's washed and her eyes look clear, like she's as mentally cognizant as she can be. What a strange difference from yesterday; she's so calm. Like a different spirit exists inside her today; her mom's the one in the towel this morning and I silently pray that it stays on this time.
"I'm ready when you are." Cynthia's smoking a cigarette and eying me quietly, like she's still deciding whether or not she can trust me. I'm so ready to go. "Alright, come on then."
We go outside her building, and one of her neighbors is smoking pot on the stairs. He looks at me suspiciously. "Nah, this my case manager, you good," Cynthia says, quickly easing his suspicions that I'm with the police in any way. There's a flyer on my windshield when I go outside, but Cynthia's gotten to my car first to pull it and look at it. Her face somehow remains expressionless as she reads that her neighbor was killed on the 4th of July.
His name is John Pernell, and he was in his 60s. Someone was trying to rob him while he was setting up a cookout in his yard, and when he refused to give up money, he was shot multiple times and pronounced dead by the time the police took him to the hospital.
"Did you know him?" Cynthia nods silently. "Are you ok, Ms. Hayes?"
"I'm fine. Everyone know Mr. Pernell though, he been 'round here over 20 years. He such a nice man, he always telling me 'put on more clothes 'lil girl!' Ha, I just go over watch tv at his 'partment. Nice man."
There's little remorse in her voice. She's not weeping, and I notice that the look on her face still hasn't changed. She's numb except for the random memories and she cracks a smile every now and then. I see tragedy and she sees another day in the neighborhood.
We're stuck in traffic on 295, and I let my mind drift. Even Cynthia had people she knew that would come out of the woodworks and be her friend, so easily. I pictured Mr. Pernell, an older man who had lived a hard life but finally got his own piece of heaven to own in Anacostia, where he'd worked hard his whole life. It must've hurt his heart to see women like Cynthia sell themselves short and succumb to the pressures of street life. He must've told her to put on more clothes with a smile on his face, but secretly wished to protect her as a father looks after a daughter who doesn't know better. He was the man who waved at you from his porch as he sat in the sun all day. He knew your first name. He was kind and helpful, and thought he'd get to see his grandchildren later that day. An innocent bystander and now he's dead. He's dead and Cynthia's numb. Cynthia's numb and I'm driving in this heat, pondering a pointless death, filled with dissatisfaction for the way things turn out, wishing the sun would burn me down into the sidewalk or the rain would dissolve me; melt me down into nothing so I could claim ignorance in the midst of all this hopelessness. 'There was another shooting? Someone else is dead and no one really cares? I don't know anything about it, I can't be trusted to do anything; I'm merely burnt ash and evaporated water. I'm not here, and if I appear to be a living, breathing, cognizant human being, it's all a mistake. I'm really quite helpless.'
Cynthia, I can tell, is used to being told "no." She begs for money from anyone shamelessly, including me. She gets her bus pass for free because she whines over and over that she has no money for a replacement ID. "No" is just a way of life and it's broken her down so much. She has moments throughout the day when I say something that makes her laugh, though I never really mean to. She tells me she likes my shoes and asks about the blisters on my feet. She smiles randomly. She's so quiet, yet in a tender, child-like way. She litters once, and I ask her to pick it up and please find a trashcan; she does and apologizes. I wonder what broke her down, or what she was like before... life happened. Mr. Pernell is not the first person she knew to die; how did she react at the very first death of a friend? Did she scream and cry? Was she angry? How do you start becoming so calloused to death; what does that process even look like?
I take her home and she's still quiet, happy about the bus pass and regretful that she won't make her NA meeting for the sake of Mr. Pernell's funeral. I understand. She makes random comments about traffic, and finally, I can't take it anymore.
"How can you be so calm about Mr. Pernell? How are you ok?!" I realize I shouldn't be asking someone with schizoaffective disorder these questions, but it's eating me.
She stares straight ahead and answers quietly, never blinking. "I know a lot of people to die. My friend got killed right in front of me in 2000, and I got shot in the leg. I don't know." And she doesn't know; she's telling me. Not asking for an explanation, but simply telling me, like she'd tell me the weather.
"Aren't you scared?" Wrong question.
"Nah, I ain't scared. You scared, ain't you?"
Yes, Cynthia. I'm scared that the world's so incredibly fucked up that we can't begin to see where good ends and evil begins.
"No, I'm not. I was just wondering about your past trauma history, and how that must still be hard on you."
She's smiling to herself again. "I'm not scared." And maybe she genuinely believes that.
We get home and she turns to me. "Thank you, Ms. Ellen. I'll see you later, then." I'm suddenly overwhelmed that she thanked me; this woman who has, deep down, a sweet, quiet spirit yet has such a rough exterior in order to cope with her surroundings; this woman took the wall down to thank me today. What a huge, incredibly powerful thing genuine gratitude is.
"You're so welcome, Ms. Hayes. I'll see you next week." There are more John Pernell flyers on other cars. My eyes are blurring with tears as I make a u-turn to go back to the office. As I pass her house, she's still on the porch, waiting for me to drive by. She waves briefly, then turns to go.
Cynthia, I could've so easily been you. You could've so easily been me. How unfair it all is, and yet you found it necessary to thank me? I've done nothing worthy of your thanks, sweet lady. I'm just another sparrow, and we're all trying to find our way back to the nest.
I am one of them now.
It's so strange to think about it but when I actually concentrate on the fact that I'm employed, paying taxes, and "doing my part," I can't help but chuckle to myself. How quickly I went from a child to an adult. What a twisted road I took; this year of working at Community Connections will be one where I look back and wonder how I made it. There will be times when it dragged on for eternity, and there will be times when I blinked and it was over. I can't believe it's already July. Does the rest of life go so quickly?
I'm snapped back to reality when someone tries to come into the Subway from a locked door. "Not open, come in main ah-trence!" Another African, employed and working in America. The begger is pissed but keeps walking. I hate this place this morning, and decide to kill time by writing my parents a letter from the pen and paper the Congressman's office gave me as a "thank you" for being such a great intern. So great, in fact, they didn't hire me when a job opened. I'm trying so hard to not be bitter, but it's difficult when they went with someone with more hill experience over someone who knew the job, and spent so much time and effort with the offices in Yorktown. Now I'm stuck in this job I hate it because I can't do any better for myself. I'm drowning in this pity party. Letter.
"Dear Mom and Dad,
I'm here at a Subway restaurant, waiting to see if one of my clients will show around 9. It's about 7:30-- I had to drive Kiara to Chinatown today to catch a bus to NYC, where she has a job interview.
I feel very stuck right now. There are no jobs out there for which I can easily apply, and without a Masters' degree, I'm not very marketable. Lately I've been having trouble thinking to the futre; been stuck in the moment. I might be writing you all a lot of letters over the next year; it helps. I'm starting to resent the city. I'm trying very hard to remember memories here with family, but there are so many moments now that override the old ones. I'm trying to focus on the year; this is only temporary. this is only a year, but it seems like an eternity. All I really want to do is get this over with and get out; I don't even know if I want to stay in Arlington. I want to be somewhere away from the city and the busy style of things.
I got really angry at God yesterday. I want to know why God allows some people to be born into failure; drug addicted homes, predisposed to these dangerous lifestyles. I realized yesterday that I'm looking evil blatantly in the eye everyday and it's exhausting. I feel so frail today, like I'm powerless, helpless, and doing absolutely nothing important. I feel like I'm not good enough to work anywhere else, like I have no other choices right now. And I know this is my problem, where I'm here stuck in the moment. I can't seem to get out of it. I'm sick of crying; I'm never hungry and I've lost some weight; I don't have any interests today other than sleep. A year; I have to just get through this for a year.
Do you think I'm weak? Do you think I'm a coward? I know I need to just grow up; Maybe I was too eager to grow up. I don't really remember why I was in such a hurry. I don't remember who was so important that I had to impress them. Have you ever felt this way? Will it go away, or will I always feel so overwhelmed? The funny thing is, I'm not scared of losing my job. I'm not worried I'll fail on paper. I'm not even scared of my clients; I walked around bad Anacostia neighborhood yesterday to clear my head. I still can't even pinpoint the breakdowns, except I feel I got what I deserved. I'm working at a job I settled for because I was so scared of being looked down on as a college-graduate-nobody. I'm my own worst enemy I guess. But all I'm wondering now is what I was trying to hard to prove in the first place.
I've considered failing on purpose at this job and not making productivity; that would give me 2 months to clear out; one on probabtion and the other final month to leave. But that would be a black eye on my resume and I'd be stuck with rent and no way to pay. This isn't the worst; I know that I am very blessed and I'm thankful for God's provision and my relationship with Him.
This is not a good letter; I know. I'm sorry you guys have to read about my gray while still dealing with Nana. I'll be better, I think. I'll write more. It helps. I love you both so much, and miss you.
Love,
Ellen"
Mr. Moten's supposed to be here soon; I should probably walk over to the Judicairy Metro stop. I keep an eye out for Mr. Bogash; he wants to meet up later and discuss why I got into "do-gooder" work, as he calls it. If only he knew I feel like I'm trapped, in every possible way.
Mr. Moten is already at the Metro. He's easy to recognize. He's a very handsome black man who would probably go very far in life if drugs and schizophrenia hadn't taken hold of him in his 20s. He's a father of 3 and is here to inquire about how much money is taken out of his SSI check for child support. His youngest is 18 and he seems to think the cut off age is 18, though I have a sinking feeling it's 21. He's angry that his son's mother is likely pocketing the money and as I sit down next to him in the heat, he sounds so helpless.
"I can't figure this out," he says. "I'm paying for him and they takin' this money out and I don't even know if he's gettin' it. I can't get a break man, can't get a break."
Mr. Moten is especially heart-breaking. He takes great pride in his appearance. Today he's wearing a baby-blue shirt and nice slacks. He loves to read and carries his lawnchair with him everywhere. I've often seen him in the Mall lounging in front of monuments with books from the library. He's a kind soul, so quick to smile and so observant. I have a picture of my parents on my desk, and the first thing he ever said to me was "you are the spittin' image of your mother." He's always talking about starting an enterprise, a "philanthropy like Bono or Bill Clinton" and he's always looking for investors. He found one the other day apparently, but it was an annonymous donor.
"Look at everyone. Walking around like everything is just peaches an' cream. Don't nobody know what a hard break is. They all got money, they have no idea. Ellen, I got a book on making money. All about capitalism."
"Oh, I studied some of that theory in school. Want me to explain it to you?"
He looks suddenly amused. I walked into a hole with this one. "Go ahead."
"Umm, ok. So capitalism is where the market is free from most government regulations and buyers and sellers determine the prices of goods. There is competition and people can get rich or poor depending on how competitive they make themselves. Everyone has an equal opportunity to succeed or fail." I cringe as I say this, because I know it isn't true.
"I know I know what it is. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. I know, I'm one of the poorer ones, fall on hard times. You ever had a hard time, Ellen?"
I hesitate, because there was a time in my life I couldn't physically move by myself. Mr. Moten has never experienced this; he's in perfect shape, just incredibly poor. "Yes, but it's different from what you're going through, Mr. Moten. Everyone has different problems. Just because you're rich doesn't mean life is good; someone who looks like everything is just 'peaches and cream' may have a whole 'nother set of issues that you will never have to experience."
"Hmm. Maybe, I guess you're right. Let's go in now."
We're both drenched because it's around 100 degrees outside. Mr. Moten discovers that he has to keep paying child support until his son is 21. He laughs, but there's a certain defeat to it. I'm sorry Mr. Moten, I want to say. I'm sorry that you're stuck and you can't start trying to build your business until after you can save some more money. I'm sorry you're sweet, caring nature will never really be seen by the world because society is so quick to label you a nobody, an undesirable. I'm sorry the world won't get the chance to see what your potential could've been. I wish I could do more to help you, Mr. Moten; it hurts to think of all you've been robbed of.
"Please have a safe weekend, Mr. Moten. Stay inside in the air conditiong, ok? Drink a lot of water. Be safe, take care of yourself Mr. Moten."
"Alright. I'll see you on Tuesday, Ellen."
-----------------------------------------
I pick up Cynthia later that morning. She's wearing clothes today and her face looks surprisingly younger; she's washed and her eyes look clear, like she's as mentally cognizant as she can be. What a strange difference from yesterday; she's so calm. Like a different spirit exists inside her today; her mom's the one in the towel this morning and I silently pray that it stays on this time.
"I'm ready when you are." Cynthia's smoking a cigarette and eying me quietly, like she's still deciding whether or not she can trust me. I'm so ready to go. "Alright, come on then."
We go outside her building, and one of her neighbors is smoking pot on the stairs. He looks at me suspiciously. "Nah, this my case manager, you good," Cynthia says, quickly easing his suspicions that I'm with the police in any way. There's a flyer on my windshield when I go outside, but Cynthia's gotten to my car first to pull it and look at it. Her face somehow remains expressionless as she reads that her neighbor was killed on the 4th of July.
His name is John Pernell, and he was in his 60s. Someone was trying to rob him while he was setting up a cookout in his yard, and when he refused to give up money, he was shot multiple times and pronounced dead by the time the police took him to the hospital.
"Did you know him?" Cynthia nods silently. "Are you ok, Ms. Hayes?"
"I'm fine. Everyone know Mr. Pernell though, he been 'round here over 20 years. He such a nice man, he always telling me 'put on more clothes 'lil girl!' Ha, I just go over watch tv at his 'partment. Nice man."
There's little remorse in her voice. She's not weeping, and I notice that the look on her face still hasn't changed. She's numb except for the random memories and she cracks a smile every now and then. I see tragedy and she sees another day in the neighborhood.
We're stuck in traffic on 295, and I let my mind drift. Even Cynthia had people she knew that would come out of the woodworks and be her friend, so easily. I pictured Mr. Pernell, an older man who had lived a hard life but finally got his own piece of heaven to own in Anacostia, where he'd worked hard his whole life. It must've hurt his heart to see women like Cynthia sell themselves short and succumb to the pressures of street life. He must've told her to put on more clothes with a smile on his face, but secretly wished to protect her as a father looks after a daughter who doesn't know better. He was the man who waved at you from his porch as he sat in the sun all day. He knew your first name. He was kind and helpful, and thought he'd get to see his grandchildren later that day. An innocent bystander and now he's dead. He's dead and Cynthia's numb. Cynthia's numb and I'm driving in this heat, pondering a pointless death, filled with dissatisfaction for the way things turn out, wishing the sun would burn me down into the sidewalk or the rain would dissolve me; melt me down into nothing so I could claim ignorance in the midst of all this hopelessness. 'There was another shooting? Someone else is dead and no one really cares? I don't know anything about it, I can't be trusted to do anything; I'm merely burnt ash and evaporated water. I'm not here, and if I appear to be a living, breathing, cognizant human being, it's all a mistake. I'm really quite helpless.'
Cynthia, I can tell, is used to being told "no." She begs for money from anyone shamelessly, including me. She gets her bus pass for free because she whines over and over that she has no money for a replacement ID. "No" is just a way of life and it's broken her down so much. She has moments throughout the day when I say something that makes her laugh, though I never really mean to. She tells me she likes my shoes and asks about the blisters on my feet. She smiles randomly. She's so quiet, yet in a tender, child-like way. She litters once, and I ask her to pick it up and please find a trashcan; she does and apologizes. I wonder what broke her down, or what she was like before... life happened. Mr. Pernell is not the first person she knew to die; how did she react at the very first death of a friend? Did she scream and cry? Was she angry? How do you start becoming so calloused to death; what does that process even look like?
I take her home and she's still quiet, happy about the bus pass and regretful that she won't make her NA meeting for the sake of Mr. Pernell's funeral. I understand. She makes random comments about traffic, and finally, I can't take it anymore.
"How can you be so calm about Mr. Pernell? How are you ok?!" I realize I shouldn't be asking someone with schizoaffective disorder these questions, but it's eating me.
She stares straight ahead and answers quietly, never blinking. "I know a lot of people to die. My friend got killed right in front of me in 2000, and I got shot in the leg. I don't know." And she doesn't know; she's telling me. Not asking for an explanation, but simply telling me, like she'd tell me the weather.
"Aren't you scared?" Wrong question.
"Nah, I ain't scared. You scared, ain't you?"
Yes, Cynthia. I'm scared that the world's so incredibly fucked up that we can't begin to see where good ends and evil begins.
"No, I'm not. I was just wondering about your past trauma history, and how that must still be hard on you."
She's smiling to herself again. "I'm not scared." And maybe she genuinely believes that.
We get home and she turns to me. "Thank you, Ms. Ellen. I'll see you later, then." I'm suddenly overwhelmed that she thanked me; this woman who has, deep down, a sweet, quiet spirit yet has such a rough exterior in order to cope with her surroundings; this woman took the wall down to thank me today. What a huge, incredibly powerful thing genuine gratitude is.
"You're so welcome, Ms. Hayes. I'll see you next week." There are more John Pernell flyers on other cars. My eyes are blurring with tears as I make a u-turn to go back to the office. As I pass her house, she's still on the porch, waiting for me to drive by. She waves briefly, then turns to go.
Cynthia, I could've so easily been you. You could've so easily been me. How unfair it all is, and yet you found it necessary to thank me? I've done nothing worthy of your thanks, sweet lady. I'm just another sparrow, and we're all trying to find our way back to the nest.
Cynthia
I met her yesterday for the first time, really. I'm walking in and the apartment reaks overwhelmingly of cigarette smoke. She's in a towel and cussing out her mother and I'm trying to not make eye contact while simultaneously sending the vibe that I'm trustworthy and she doesnt have anything to worry about... yeah right. I don't know what I'm doing and I'm quite frankly terrified becuase I'm pretty sure Cynthia's coming down from a bad trip on PCP.
"I know she used drugs this weekend. I can see it in her face, her attitude change, her words change, she just diff'rent, and she don't think I know but I know, I see it."
Ms. Felicia Hayes has had it with Cynthia yelling and swearing at her. I don't blame her. She's in curlers and trying to relax, quietly explaining to me that her son is in jail, she suffers from depression, she recently retired from a job cleaning a hopsital her whole life, and now she has to take care of Cynthia. The tv's on and some commercial comes on for bipolar medication: "it can feel like you're drowning..." I'm thrown for a loop; Ms. Hayes needs just as much as help as her daughter and she's telling me she expects me to basically take over for her, but she's saying it in this gentle voice that makes me continue to nod along to the requests and I'm not processing really, I'm simply going with the flow of the conversation and before I know it I'm lulled into agreeing to take over Cynthia's life. A list of what she needs. Why she needs it. Where and when she needs to be places. Doctor's visits--
"You stole my fuggin' money! Sit over there like you don't know what I'm talking about, you know you took it! Don't know where else it gon' be? Shit. Stole my fuggin' money."
Ms. Hayes shakes her head and I look at Cynthia. Her anger broke my trance and for the first time I get a good look at her. She's light skinned, and her eyes are huge brown pools of sadness. Her hair is in weaves down her scalp and it's an obnoxious blonde color; she's itching it because it was done yesterday. She was wearing a towel, but in her fit of anger, it fell and she's disoriented and fumbling for it, picking it up from the dirty floor, but taking her time. She's not worried about who sees her, or who might walk in the door. She looks at me as if I'm supposed to join in the blame game, and she's not at all worried about putting the towel back on. Cynthia's only got one objective right now.
"Look at her."
It's a command, and her mother is staring grid-locked in Cynthia's eyes. Daring her to make eye contact. But Cynthia's looking at me.
"I said, LOOK at her!"
I turn around to face her mother as briefly as possible before Cynthia is satisfied. But her mom is still looking right at her daughter; her 42 year old daughter who has a son in jail, a teenage daughter with 2 kids, and a drug problem that eats her money and causes her to blame others. Ms. Hayes is the epitome of helpless, and I feel the same.
The towel's back on. Thank God. I'm trying to talk to Cynthia privately, but the entire time, all she can tell me is she lost her bus pass and her phone and again, it's my responsibility to retrieve these things. I agree to pick her up tomorrow and take her downtown to the Transit Authority to get a new bus card, but only if she agrees to go to an NA meeting on Saturday. Technically, we're not supposed to bargain with clients but I don't know how else to get through to her.
I barely get to the car before I break down. I'm in the middle of shit, shit Anacostia and sobbing for the poverty stricken world to see, this pathetic little white girl in completely over her head and not knowing what to do with a woman on drugs and a mother who's just as lost and confused as I am. I'm furious and I still don't remember that car ride back to work. All I remember is driving home that day, screaming at God, so angry that He would create some people predisposed to fail, it seems. I keep seeing Cynthia and the wells of anger boiling up from the drugs. But really they're from the fact that her son is in prison, or that she tried to be loved by men only to be raped and abused, or she was shot in the leg and watched her friend die beside her, or that she suffers from depression stemming from trauma so severe, she struggles to truly remember the events that have happened to her throughout her life. Why did God put me in a family that loves Jesus Christ and raised me in a loving environment? Why was I never a victim of drugs or violence or abuse? How do you pick, God? Who gets lucky and who gets screwed? Why are some people so much better off; why did I get the chance to go to college when there are others who are so much more deserving of these chances than me, and who may actually take better advantage of them than I ever would? How do you pick and choose?? I don't understand God, and I'm so angry. I'm still sobbing when I get to Kiara's home and she lets me cry for a while. The tv's on and I recognize the bipolar medication commercial that I heard at Cynthia's apartment; "like you're drowning..." I calm down and start on the paperwork. Tomorrow I'm seeing Mr. Moten in the morning and Ms. Hayes directly after. Long morning. I should sleep a lot tonight.
"I know she used drugs this weekend. I can see it in her face, her attitude change, her words change, she just diff'rent, and she don't think I know but I know, I see it."
Ms. Felicia Hayes has had it with Cynthia yelling and swearing at her. I don't blame her. She's in curlers and trying to relax, quietly explaining to me that her son is in jail, she suffers from depression, she recently retired from a job cleaning a hopsital her whole life, and now she has to take care of Cynthia. The tv's on and some commercial comes on for bipolar medication: "it can feel like you're drowning..." I'm thrown for a loop; Ms. Hayes needs just as much as help as her daughter and she's telling me she expects me to basically take over for her, but she's saying it in this gentle voice that makes me continue to nod along to the requests and I'm not processing really, I'm simply going with the flow of the conversation and before I know it I'm lulled into agreeing to take over Cynthia's life. A list of what she needs. Why she needs it. Where and when she needs to be places. Doctor's visits--
"You stole my fuggin' money! Sit over there like you don't know what I'm talking about, you know you took it! Don't know where else it gon' be? Shit. Stole my fuggin' money."
Ms. Hayes shakes her head and I look at Cynthia. Her anger broke my trance and for the first time I get a good look at her. She's light skinned, and her eyes are huge brown pools of sadness. Her hair is in weaves down her scalp and it's an obnoxious blonde color; she's itching it because it was done yesterday. She was wearing a towel, but in her fit of anger, it fell and she's disoriented and fumbling for it, picking it up from the dirty floor, but taking her time. She's not worried about who sees her, or who might walk in the door. She looks at me as if I'm supposed to join in the blame game, and she's not at all worried about putting the towel back on. Cynthia's only got one objective right now.
"Look at her."
It's a command, and her mother is staring grid-locked in Cynthia's eyes. Daring her to make eye contact. But Cynthia's looking at me.
"I said, LOOK at her!"
I turn around to face her mother as briefly as possible before Cynthia is satisfied. But her mom is still looking right at her daughter; her 42 year old daughter who has a son in jail, a teenage daughter with 2 kids, and a drug problem that eats her money and causes her to blame others. Ms. Hayes is the epitome of helpless, and I feel the same.
The towel's back on. Thank God. I'm trying to talk to Cynthia privately, but the entire time, all she can tell me is she lost her bus pass and her phone and again, it's my responsibility to retrieve these things. I agree to pick her up tomorrow and take her downtown to the Transit Authority to get a new bus card, but only if she agrees to go to an NA meeting on Saturday. Technically, we're not supposed to bargain with clients but I don't know how else to get through to her.
I barely get to the car before I break down. I'm in the middle of shit, shit Anacostia and sobbing for the poverty stricken world to see, this pathetic little white girl in completely over her head and not knowing what to do with a woman on drugs and a mother who's just as lost and confused as I am. I'm furious and I still don't remember that car ride back to work. All I remember is driving home that day, screaming at God, so angry that He would create some people predisposed to fail, it seems. I keep seeing Cynthia and the wells of anger boiling up from the drugs. But really they're from the fact that her son is in prison, or that she tried to be loved by men only to be raped and abused, or she was shot in the leg and watched her friend die beside her, or that she suffers from depression stemming from trauma so severe, she struggles to truly remember the events that have happened to her throughout her life. Why did God put me in a family that loves Jesus Christ and raised me in a loving environment? Why was I never a victim of drugs or violence or abuse? How do you pick, God? Who gets lucky and who gets screwed? Why are some people so much better off; why did I get the chance to go to college when there are others who are so much more deserving of these chances than me, and who may actually take better advantage of them than I ever would? How do you pick and choose?? I don't understand God, and I'm so angry. I'm still sobbing when I get to Kiara's home and she lets me cry for a while. The tv's on and I recognize the bipolar medication commercial that I heard at Cynthia's apartment; "like you're drowning..." I calm down and start on the paperwork. Tomorrow I'm seeing Mr. Moten in the morning and Ms. Hayes directly after. Long morning. I should sleep a lot tonight.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Bonds
It's Friday and it's the 4th of July weekend. Hallelujah. Amen. So ready for that to come.
I got to know Liz and Arthur and Courtney better today; I absolutely love the people I work with. Yesterday David sat down and went through all of my clients one by one to make sure they were all mentally/emotionally a good fit for me. That was really great, especially after the difficulty of last week. But today went really well. Liz and I laughed a lot, and Arthur is a really cool person; he wants to start a non-profit and is looking at Community Connections a lot from the business angle, considering it is the largest non-profit on the East Coast. Liz is just fun, a very kindred spirit and I really hope we can become good friends. We'll live close by in Arlington and we've already talked about some events going on either in Arlington, Alexandria, or the city that we want to go to together. I got to tell her about my tattoo today and my desire for another one soon enough, and she told me about some of hers. Rachel's coming in tomorrow and we'll move to Arlington, then we'll go to DC all day Sunday and Monday. Can't wait.
I got to know Liz and Arthur and Courtney better today; I absolutely love the people I work with. Yesterday David sat down and went through all of my clients one by one to make sure they were all mentally/emotionally a good fit for me. That was really great, especially after the difficulty of last week. But today went really well. Liz and I laughed a lot, and Arthur is a really cool person; he wants to start a non-profit and is looking at Community Connections a lot from the business angle, considering it is the largest non-profit on the East Coast. Liz is just fun, a very kindred spirit and I really hope we can become good friends. We'll live close by in Arlington and we've already talked about some events going on either in Arlington, Alexandria, or the city that we want to go to together. I got to tell her about my tattoo today and my desire for another one soon enough, and she told me about some of hers. Rachel's coming in tomorrow and we'll move to Arlington, then we'll go to DC all day Sunday and Monday. Can't wait.
I really shouldn't be blogging right now; Rose Shaw's lawyer called me today about documentation that she had been a part of CC for the past two months, and I have yet to send him the necessary paperwork.
On Wednesday, the judge finally put Ms. Shaw away, and though she was dreading it, she knew it was coming. So I was there for that, and actually felt a little relief that we would just get the jail time over with and she could move on with her life.
But Ms Shaw went to jail. I was sitting in the car with her, listening to her beg me to turn the car around, start crying, saying she didn't want to go to jail. There's a part of me that's slowly becoming calloused from this job, like she deserves it, she needs to just suck it up and handle the consequences and make this as painless as possible because I'm looking at the clock hoping the trial will last at least an hour because I want that productivity with her... and maybe if I didn't start developing that type of mentality, I'd become trapped in a world where I was torn apart by every one of my consumers that had to face the music and go to jail, swearing all the way to the courthouse they'd change and I'd be taken for a ride every time. Living that way is not for me, and thinking that way is far more exhausting than I want to handle. I'm learning the art of leaving my work at work and at 5pm, it's Ellen-time.
On Wednesday, the judge finally put Ms. Shaw away, and though she was dreading it, she knew it was coming. So I was there for that, and actually felt a little relief that we would just get the jail time over with and she could move on with her life.
But Ms Shaw went to jail. I was sitting in the car with her, listening to her beg me to turn the car around, start crying, saying she didn't want to go to jail. There's a part of me that's slowly becoming calloused from this job, like she deserves it, she needs to just suck it up and handle the consequences and make this as painless as possible because I'm looking at the clock hoping the trial will last at least an hour because I want that productivity with her... and maybe if I didn't start developing that type of mentality, I'd become trapped in a world where I was torn apart by every one of my consumers that had to face the music and go to jail, swearing all the way to the courthouse they'd change and I'd be taken for a ride every time. Living that way is not for me, and thinking that way is far more exhausting than I want to handle. I'm learning the art of leaving my work at work and at 5pm, it's Ellen-time.
Oh and just for the sake of humility, I completely ate it in front of the court house. I was walking, maybe strutting a little because I felt particularly cute that day, and my ankle just gave out and I tripped and fell on my hands and knees for the whole world to see. I started laughing at myself, but Ms. Rose just looked at me and shook her head. "We both having shitty days, girl." Yeah she's right.
I'm sitting in Motivational Interview training, wishing I were back in the courtroom or Howard or at someone's house. I'm quickly learning how to avoid boredom by just kicking it with the consumers.
Liz is laughing. She's got this app on her Droid phone that says random facts every day and we're A. bitter that someone gets paid exponentially more than we do to work for Apple and produce said facts and B. trying to find all 50 states on the 5 dollar bill because apparently they are listed on the Lincoln Memorial. We find 26 and start laughing again. The average person laughs 13 times a day, apparently. We're up to about 73, but there's a kid on the metro who gets hit in the head by a guy who's pushing and shoving to get off at Rosslyn and we decide that was a traumatic-enough event to lower the laugh number down to about 35. Still better than 13, so the day's a success, we agree. Tattoos and music and movies and museums and maybe more talk about the people we work with; all good topics with Liz and I'm just hoping we'll be friends and have more laughs like this in the future.
Liz is laughing. She's got this app on her Droid phone that says random facts every day and we're A. bitter that someone gets paid exponentially more than we do to work for Apple and produce said facts and B. trying to find all 50 states on the 5 dollar bill because apparently they are listed on the Lincoln Memorial. We find 26 and start laughing again. The average person laughs 13 times a day, apparently. We're up to about 73, but there's a kid on the metro who gets hit in the head by a guy who's pushing and shoving to get off at Rosslyn and we decide that was a traumatic-enough event to lower the laugh number down to about 35. Still better than 13, so the day's a success, we agree. Tattoos and music and movies and museums and maybe more talk about the people we work with; all good topics with Liz and I'm just hoping we'll be friends and have more laughs like this in the future.
I went to Annapolis with Aunt Lisa on Wednesday, and Thursday I went to Alexandria with Callie and spent the night there. Callie is getting engaged soon and invited me down to Mississippi around Christmas time to help her look for wedding paraphernalia.
CC, though, was good this week. I made productivity and I'm at peace with the job, as difficult as it may seem. I'm ready to just tackle it and make the most of the opportunity. And I'm very thankful for Liz and Arthur today; we kept each other laughing the whole time.
I was with Brenda Deans for about 6 hours yesterday. She had a colonoscopy procedure done at Howard, and she's this obese woman who's borderline retarded, with schizophrenia. She is a sweet person, and it honestly felt like I took the day off from work to be with her; she was simply in need of someone to transport her places and hold her hand through the waiting process, as well as help her with paperwork and answering questions. Ms. Deans is one of my favorites, because she's very compliant and is so sure of herself, even though she has every reason not to be. There's nothing stable in her life. Her mother died and her sister Regina and Regina's two evil kids moved into Ms. Deans' apartment. There was a shooting in the neighborhood the other day, and Ms. Deans was outside walking and heard it; the fact that it scared her broke my heart.
Waiting in Howard always gives me a fresh perspective. I used to hate that hospital because it was a training hospital where all the doctors had to take Medicaid, so obviously all the patients are poorer and rougher. But it's grown on me. A lot of the doctors are African; a lot of the nurses and orderlies are African, and the fact that they're from Africa and making a life for themselves in the DC area is encouraging. These people are brilliant, and I wonder what their lives were like in Africa; I wonder what their stories say about them, how they came to the States and under what circumstances they arrived. I wonder how far they could've gone in their lives had they been born here, and given the full opportunities of American citizenship. Then, looking at some of the patients and the underprivileged lives of some of the folks I work with, maybe its for the best they were born somewhere else. But I still wonder. I wonder if it breaks their heart to see the way some blacks carry themselves here; the destitution people fall into, the helplessness the city brings on the some of the black population and how there's so little motivation to leave the ghetto and become better. Better can meet becoming "whiter," which can be viewed as abandoning your people and betraying the culture subjected to prejudice and biases. I wonder if Africans hate it, or if they want to disassociate from it all. What a crazy world, to go from Africa to a culture where no one appreciates those who help the poor.
Serena Williams was playing tennis yesterday at Wimbledon against some Russian and everyone in the room was watching Serena. It was one of those moments where I appreciated that no matter what your financial situation, there are still common cultural ties that have the magical ability to erase every boundary. Every black in the waiting room: the orderlies, the doctor, the Howard med student, the desk attendant, and the poor folks with tattoos and diseases just waiting: they were all watching and rooting for Serena. And I got to see a bond being formed in a very subdued yet powerful way that I respected and gladly stepped back and admired. I told Ms. Deans Serena won, and she smiled and said "that's good."
Jesus is the author of love, whether its brotherly love, agape love, or love between a father and a child. Every day, I have the honor of seeing love happen in little ways, and there are these vignettes that remain snapshots in my mind of the beauty of our Lord, and the persistence and strength of love created before man was on Earth. These portraits are blessings, and reminders that He will prevail in darkness. God is love, and there is love and beauty everywhere.
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